Standing on the prow was a tall man, of a dark complexion, who saw with dilating eyes that they were approaching a dark mass of land in the shape of a cone, which rose from the midst of the waves like the hat of a Catalan. "Is that Monte Cristo?" asked the traveller, to whose orders the yacht was for the time submitted, in a melancholy voice."Yes, your excellency," said the captain, "we have reached it." We have reached it!" repeated the traveller in an accent of indescribable sadness. Then he added, in a low tone, "Yes; that is the haven." And then he again plunged into a train of thought, the character of which was better revealed by a sad smile, than it would have been by tears. A few minutes afterwards a flash of light, which was extinguished instantly, was seen on the land, and the sound of firearms reached the yacht."Your excellency," said the captain, "that was the land signal, will you answer yourself?" What signal?" The captain pointed towards the island, up the side of. Now my life had a single purpose. With the help of the income from my inheritance (to which I was now fully entitled), and a few like-minded women I found via the agit-prop pages in Time Out, I began to actively take on the prison system and misogynist behaviour in general. My priority was, of course, Steve. I set a private detective to work on the Judge who had pushed the jury to convict Steve of murder while knowing the truth.A couple of months after later, my friend Melissa, a big sexy girl convicted for dealing large quantities of acid and coke (though it was her slimy boyfriend who got her into it), with whom Steve and I had dallied on many an otherwise dull afternoon, was let out on parole. I was at the prison gates to meet her. I immediately offered her the job as my assistant in the fight for Steve's freedom, and a place to live in one of the spare rooms of my lonely Camden flat."She's getting worse," said Melissa straight away. "The old status quo has gone, and the new one.
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